


All the Pieces Falling into Place

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Case Fic, Cryptic communication is their specialty, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Tension, Sleepy Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Travel, Unresolved Sexual Tension, followed by a lot of sex, non-canon timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-03-30 19:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 14,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3949489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before heading off on a case that leads to Belgrade, John grabs the Sudoku cube from Sherlock's desk. As John tries to solve the puzzle, he and Sherlock find themselves playing their own game charged with sexual tension. </p><p>(Don't squint too hard at the case fic. The thing they really need to solve is all that burning, unspoken desire. And they will, in many different ways.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The decision to toss the Sudoku cube into his bag had been made at the last minute. John had his mobile, his laptop, and a book to pass the time, but he hated being at loose ends when traveling. There was only so much staring out a window he could do, unlike Sherlock, who could fall into a prolonged and disengaged silence, no doubt deep in his mind palace reorganizing poisons and maps and ash and perfumes. So in went the puzzle he grabbed from Sherlock’s desk.

John now sat across from Sherlock on the night train to Belgrade, nothing but darkness and an occasional blurred light speeding by outside. Bored, John drew the cube from his bag and studied it carefully, giving it a few tentative twists. This wasn’t going to be easy, trying to arrange each side with the numbers 1 through 9. Damn, there must be billions of combinations…

“Where did you get that?”

John looked up at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, surprised. He hadn’t spoken a word for hours and was now staring pointedly at the puzzle in John’s hands.

“I took it from your desk,” John answered. “Sorry -- didn’t think you’d mind.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on the cube. “Be very careful with that,” he finally said, not looking very pleased.

John glanced down, wondering what could be so important about a block of plastic. He made a few more twists, trying to ignore Sherlock. They had been traveling for several days now, heading toward Serbia to meet with another contact connected to the current case.

A wealthy English woman of a certain age had initially hired Sherlock to track down her ex-lover, who had turned out to be a thief. The more they investigated, the longer the trail of jilted wealthy women and thefts they discovered, sending them across several countries. The original client was footing the bill, determined to even the score.

The train swayed on and John eventually put the puzzle away and drifted into a light sleep, his head nodding down toward his chest. He had opened his eyes once, caught a glimpse of Sherlock staring out the window at the blackness, his head resting against the glass. John folded his arms and tried to find a comfortable position for his neck. His dozing was interrupted several minutes later by a train attendant rushing through the carriage, calling for a doctor. John caught Sherlock’s eye and stood up, pushing into the aisle, instantly awake, adrenaline kicking in. He felt Sherlock behind him as he flagged down the train official.

The attendant led them through two carriages, explaining that a male passenger was having severe chest pains. John knelt by the elderly man, asking him series of questions, checking his pulse, barking out directives to find the man’s luggage and look for any medications. They would need to transport the man to the nearest hospital, a town 10 minutes away. John concentrated on his patient, oblivious to other passengers’ nervous whispering.

John glanced up, his eyes landing momentarily on Sherlock standing several feet away. John paused, struck by the look of utter uncertainty in Sherlock’s eyes. For once, Sherlock Holmes was waiting to be told what to do. And for once, John had no use for him. John turned instead to the train attendant to ask how much longer it would be.

The train finally churned to a halt and a team of paramedics boarded. John followed them, swiftly transmitting the pertinent information as they carried the man to a waiting ambulance. The man clutched at John’s hand in thanks and John nodded, then let out a long breath as the ambulance drove away. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned back to the train, adrenaline still rushing through his limbs.

Several people grabbed his hand to shake it, others touched his arm or murmured thanks as he walked through the carriage to return to his seat, the sound of a shrill whistle and heavy thud of doors closing as the train lurched back into motion.

His thoughts were still racing when he entered the connecting corridor that led to the carriage where his seat was located. He stopped, taking another deep breath to calm his nerves, then became aware that he was being watched. He looked up to find Sherlock standing in the shadows, apparently waiting for him.

“All right?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” John answered. “Just settling down. Wasn’t planning on that happening tonight.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, then added, “Impressive as usual, Doctor Watson.”

“Yes, well, it’s what I’m trained to do, isn’t it?” John said modestly, smiling slightly.

A woman pushed open the door to pass through, and John stepped aside, crowding closer to Sherlock. She walked by, her perfume lingering in the air as the door shut behind her.

John glanced back at Sherlock, about to suggest they return to their seats, but his voice stopped in his throat. Sherlock was looking at him intently. _Or was it hungrily?_ John thought instinctively.

The dim lights flickered as the train went around a curve, and they swayed in the passageway, eyes locked. John had been under this gaze before, and it unnerved him, disoriented him, excited him. Sherlock shifted slightly closer, his eyes dropping to John’s mouth.

John was transfixed, the small spaced filled with the odd scent of diesel mixing with the woman’s Chanel No. 5, the wheels on the track a rhythmic rattle in his head as he was drawn inexorably toward Sherlock. _Oh my god,_ John thought fleetingly, _we’re going to kiss…_

The door hissed open again and a man carrying a small child entered the vestibule. John stepped back, startled. He watched them go by, then looked at Sherlock. A few tense seconds passed.

“We’d best go,” Sherlock finally said quietly, then turned away, pushing open the door.

John stared after him, wondering if he’d just imagined what had nearly happened. But no, this wasn’t the first time this sort of tension had arisen between them. John passed a hand over his face, bewildered, frustrated. By the time he took his seat, Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his head leaning against the window again, preventing any further discussion.


	2. Chapter 2

They arrived at the hotel, a stately old building with tall, narrow windows and ornate chandeliers, and checked in early. They had not slept well on the train and had not spoken much during the taxi ride from the station. 

They took their key cards and walked bleary-eyed to the lift. They rode silently to the third floor and exited, briefly orienting themselves.

“I’m in room 318,” John said, starting down the hallway.

“301,” Sherlock added tersely, turning the opposite direction. He stopped, seemed to soften a bit. “I’ll text you later. Get some sleep.”

John watched him disappear into his room, then unlocked his own door and took a cursory look at the furnishings. Two plush chairs, a desk, a small sofa, pale green-and-cream striped wallpaper, chest of drawers, an incredibly inviting bed with multiple pillows. He toed off his shoes, dropped his bag onto a chair, and stretched out on top of the mattress. 

He sighed and closed his eyes, wondering briefly how the elderly man with the heart condition was doing. He turned the case over in his mind for a few moments, then was drawn back to the darkness of the train, those few heady seconds when he thought Sherlock was going to lean down and kiss him. He wouldn’t mind. He’d welcome it, in all truth.

They already lived together day after day, splitting the rent, sharing takeaway, choosing cases, chasing criminals, bickering over the telly, brushing past each other in the kitchen and on the narrow stairs, partners in work, at home, mere steps away from something that could be so much more intimate. John sighed again and pressed his forearm over his eyes.

He wished to God he knew what Sherlock really thought. The man was impossible, impenetrable, throwing up walls whenever a shimmer of that terrible, delicious tension arose between them. It happened unpredictably -- while putting on their coats to leave the flat, leaning over a laptop to point out some detail, waiting under an awning for a break in a downpour of rain -- their gazes would catch, linger, tear away, nothing spoken or acted on.

This was useless. John sat up and rubbed his neck, then headed to the shower, turning on the taps to heat the water. He undressed and stepped under the warm spray, letting it unknot his tense shoulders. 

He didn’t want to think about the case. Or about Sherlock. Or Sherlock's cheekbones and goddamn lips. He would not think about them covering his own mouth in a crushing kiss, nor about long fingers digging into his waist then sliding lower, pulling down his zipper, working beneath his trousers, palm curling around his cock, thumb skimming across the slit, coaxing the head until it was wet and glossy...

Dammit, he was hard. John let out an annoyed huff, his soapy hand encircling his stiff cock, soon moving in long, slow strokes. He bit his lip, his slick palming taking his senses places that soon changed his annoyance to a feverish want. He simultaneously cursed and longed for the man down the hall as the water pummeled his back and his wet fist frantically worked on bringing forth a much-needed release. 

John groaned, water streaming past his tightly closed eyes and into his partially open mouth, his hips bucking, cum spurting onto the deep blue tiles. The milky streaks soon washed away, leaving no trace of his fervent need. John panted into the crook of his arm pressed against the wall, his legs weak, feeling emptied but not satisfied.


	3. Chapter 3

After a long rest, John changed into a fresh set of clothes and steeled himself against the weakness that had gripped him in the shower. No point in wanting things he couldn’t have. Best to try and put it out of his mind. 

Focusing on the practical, he headed downstairs to the hotel dining room in search of something to eat. He ordered, then glanced through a newspaper as he waited for his food to arrive, only looking up when he heard the flinty scrape of a lighter, the metallic snap of the cap closing, and a deeply satisfied exhalation. 

“Do you mind?” John asked Sherlock, who had folded into the opposite seat holding a newly opened pack of cigarettes.

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied, pulling the ashtray a bit closer. “Finally, a civilized country,” he said, taking another drag. He glanced at John’s disapproving face. “Oh, please, I’ll only have two today. Maybe three. It’s so rare to be able to smoke indoors these days.”

John frowned, his eyes smarting from the haze that already filled the room. The waiter arrived with the food, and Sherlock asked for an espresso. He watched John eat for a few moments, absently turning the lighter in his hand. 

“So what’s on today?” John asked between bites.

“I’m going to some less reputable parts of town to make some inquiries, and you’re going to chat with another client. Turns out this time our thief took diamond jewelry.” Sherlock picked up his phone to type as he talked. “There, just sent you the client’s name and address.”

John’s phone chimed on cue, and he glanced at the screen. “He seems to have worked his way across half of Europe,” John commented. “Quite the Lothario.”

Sherlock held his cigarette, looking absently across the room at the smattering of anonymous faces. “I wonder why they all fell for it."

“Who? The women?”

“Mm,” Sherlock confirmed. “They all seemed bright enough... Why do people suddenly turn stupid as soon as they think they're in love?”

John let out a short laugh. “That’s the human heart for you.”

“Is it?” Sherlock tapped the ash off the end of his cigarette. “Foolish to let your guard down.”

John looked at him, his fork poised in mid-air. “That’s part of falling in love… letting your defenses down,” he said, testing the sincerity of Sherlock's words.

“And getting robbed the next morning, apparently,” Sherlock finished. “Steep price for a shag.”

John’s mouth fell open. “Jesus, Sherlock,” he finally said, feeling like he was sliding down a hopelessly muddy slope, “that’s the most cynical thing I’ve ever heard.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Never let your heart rule your head.” He gave a cursory nod as the waiter set down a glass of water and a small steaming cup of espresso.

“Oh, so we should all just live alone and curl up with our money at night, then?" John challenged. "Sleep alone with our valuables stuffed safely in our mattresses?”

Sherlock considered this as he added two cubes of sugar to his cup. “It would be rather lumpy, but it avoids complications.” 

John shook his head, a wry smile on his face. “You’re a cold-hearted bastard,” he muttered, not entirely sure if either of them were joking.

They ate and drank in silence, then Sherlock looked intently at John for a long moment. “Have you ever been in love?” he asked suddenly.

John choked on a bite of bread, surprised by the unusually pointed question. He took a drink of water, cleared his throat. “I think so. To one degree or another, once or twice,” he answered. He hesitated, then forged ahead. “Have you?”

Sherlock turned a spoon around in his hands, examining it. “Never,” he finally replied. “Momentarily intrigued, yes… in love, no.”

“Oh.” John looked down at his plate, flashing back to the train, his stomach tightening.

“Why’d they end, these love affairs of yours?” Sherlock asked, still studying the spoon.

“I don’t know,” John flailed. “Different levels of interest in commitment… bad timing...” He paused, drawn farther into his confession than he intended. “His injury.”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up. “His injury,” he repeated carefully.

John’s shoulders sagged, his expression far away. “In Afghanistan, there was a battle… it all went wrong...” His voice trailed off. He blinked several times before straightening his back again. “I don’t think I want to talk about it.” 

Sherlock kept his eyes averted. John exhaled uneasily. “The way it ended... was complicated.”

Sherlock finally lifted his eyes. “It’s fine.” He gave John the ghost of a smile. “It’s all fine.” They looked at each other across the table, both thinking back to the night they first met and their conversation at Angelo’s.

“Relationships,” Sherlock said suddenly, breaking the crystalline moment by letting the spoon he still held clatter onto the tabletop. “It all sounds so messy.”

“It is messy. But it has its benefits.”

“Sounds pragmatic.”

John sighed. “That's not what I meant. A relationship can be... amazing.”

“Until it ends,” Sherlock finished abruptly, clearly done with the subject. “Now then, hurry up. The day’s half gone.” 

He stood up and John stared after him, then wolfed down a few more bites before signaling the waiter for the bill.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock spent the afternoon prowling about the fringes of the city, asking questions at pawn shops and dubious pubs, sniffing out where one might try to dispose of recently acquired valuables such as a diamond necklace.

His thoughts were frequently interrupted by John’s two-word revelation: _His injury._ Sherlock’s mind was spinning -- John, once in love with a man -- someone John never spoke about, someone he hadn’t guessed at, someone he was suddenly irrationally jealous of.

Sherlock shook his head abruptly, determined to focus on the case. John had texted a few details from his initial interview with the new client, who was reluctant to involve the police. Oddly, no one had been able to provide a photo of the ex-lover, a strange aberration in an era of digital excess.

To complicate matters, the descriptions they had received of the man were inconsistent as well -- blond, dark haired; blue eyes, hazel; reserved, gregarious; sweet, assertive. Clearly, the man had selected and studied his marks well in advance and transformed into whatever the women tended to favor.

He briefly wondered if it could be a team endeavor -- two men working the game, one to distract the mark and one to do the thieving. It would be quite clever, really…

Sherlock pondered this possibility some more, staring at the ornately plastered ceiling from his vantage point stretched out on the sofa in his hotel room. He had changed into pajama bottoms and dark blue t-shirt and was now smoking leisurely as he thought about the case, occasionally blowing out a nearly perfect smoke ring.

John, seated in a nearby chair, watched him, his eyes tracking the circle of smoke until it vanished. “I thought you said two or three cigarettes,” he chided, getting up from his chair to crack open the window for some fresh air. “The pack’s half gone.”

Sherlock glanced at the cigarettes on the table. “I’ll cut back tomorrow,” he promised half-heartedly. He watched as John took his seat and picked up the Sudoku cube again, turning it around slowly in his hands. “Haven’t you given up yet?”

“No,” John replied stubbornly. “Gives me something to do while you’re draped dramatically over the sofa.”

“I’m thinking,” Sherlock dismissed him, not rising to the bait. He formed another smoke ring, followed its slow ascent and dissipation.

The room was silent but for the raspy sound of the cube rotating in John’s hands, then his loud frustrated sigh. “Where’d you get this bloody thing, anyway?” John asked, tossing the puzzle onto the table in exasperation.

“Careful!” Sherlock snapped.

“Calm down. It’s just a toy.”

“It was, in fact, a gift,” Sherlock gritted out, then picked up the cube and held it delicately, the cigarette dangling from the fingers of his other hand. He felt John eyeing him.

“Would that be sentiment?” John ventured, unable to disguise a bit of a taunt in his voice.

This time Sherlock sighed, annoyed to be caught out. “It has personal meaning.” He looked solemnly at the object in his hand as John settled back to wait for the story.

"Go on," John prompted.

“You know about my addictive tendencies, no surprise there," Sherlock finally said. "That’s how I met Detective Inspector Lestrade. Our paths crossed more than a few times, thanks to my questionable activities. I offered some unsolicited advice about the state of his marriage and a few cases I’d read about in the papers… he remembered me.”

“I bet he did,” John commented dryly.

“He kept an eye out for me, sought my help a few times.” Sherlock turned the Sudoku cube again. “He gave this to me when I went into rehab for the second time. A puzzle to keep me occupied. Told me if I solved it by the time I got out, he’d let me help on more cases -- but only if I stayed clean.” He turned the cube, remembering. “I solved it the first day, but it provided some distraction, thinking about various mathematical combinations and probabilities. And it earned me access to New Scotland Yard, which inspired the invention of my career.”

 _And probably saved your life,_ John thought to himself. Out loud, he said, “I didn’t realize all that…”

Sherlock gave a small shrug, held the cube up dramatically in one hand. “My touchstone for sobriety is a plastic child’s toy.” He leaned over to crush out the cigarette in the ashtray, suddenly somber again. “Rather apt, I suppose.”

“Lestrade’s a good man,” John acknowledged quietly, deliberately sidestepping Sherlock’s self-disparaging remarks.

“And he probably regrets making that promise to a smart-arse junkie.”

John smiled. “Oh, I doubt that.”

They fell silent again, the air thick with the past. John felt privileged that Sherlock had shared this glimpse of personal history with him. He was suddenly seized with the urge to fold his arms protectively around Sherlock in an effort to banish the dark memories that were casting a shadow across his face. But Sherlock would never allow that, John thought ruefully. If only he could crack through that armor, unlock his defenses…

Their gazes continued to linger on the Sudoku cube. “And what happens if I manage to solve that damned puzzle?” John asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Sherlock roused himself from his thoughts and tossed John the cube, which he caught easily. “I doubt that will happen,” Sherlock scoffed. “But if you solve it before we leave Belgrade, you can name your reward.”

John was struck by his choice of words. “Is that a challenge?”

Sherlock met his gaze evenly. "If you like."

They stared at each other several seconds more, John's mouth curving up slightly. “You might be surprised,” he replied cagily. “I’m very determined. You may owe me something rather nice.”

Sherlock looked at John more closely, reading something fleeting in his expression that momentarily sent a jolt through his core. He quickly tamped it down. “No YouTubing the answer,” he finally warned, settling his head back against the pillow.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

********

After John left, Sherlock moved to the window to look out over the city. He had no idea why he’d divulged so much personal information about his past. Good God, earlier today he'd asked John if he’d ever been in love. What the hell was he thinking?

Sherlock pressed his fingers against the cool glass, letting the truth wash over him. What he was thinking about was John. About his steady hands, his ability to take command during a crisis, his eyes when he smiled -- his true smile, not the tight smirk that preceded a smoldering rage, although Sherlock found that expression quickened his pulse in a dark way -- and about John's mouth and how he'd so nearly leaned down to taste it while swaying in the shadows on the train.

Sherlock’s fingers trailed absently over his bottom lip, the tips still cool from the contact with the glass. What would it feel like to draw John close, breathe him in, have him press back and brush his lips against his? What would he look like, stripped down in the dim light of the hotel room -- slightly guarded, fist flexing once before moving decisively toward Sherlock, pulling him by the wrist to lie next to him on the bed, their mouths meeting hungrily, John throwing a leg over his, pinning their cocks between the hot skin of their stomachs…

Sherlock’s hand dropped to his thigh and tentatively moved to his groin, feeling the hardness growing beneath the soft flannel of his pajamas. He turned away from the window, his back pressed against the wall, slowly sinking down out of sight, stretching out along the floor in an abandonment of sudden need.

He impatiently worked his flannel pajama bottoms off his hips, pushed his tee shirt up, one hand stroking his erect cock, one hand playing over his nipples before skimming down his ribs. He imagined John’s hands running over his body, fingers scrabbling to find purchase between shoulder blades as they ground against each other slick with sweat, hips rolling, building up a sweet, insistent pressure at the base of their cocks, breath ragged -- _almost there, harder, again again again_ \-- muscles seizing for an ecstatic moment --

Sherlock heard his own low moan as his pelvis lifted, his head arching back against the stiff fibers of the carpet, spasms of warm semen striping his torso. The final waves shuddered through his body and he lay there, unthinking, his breath slowing as cum trickled down the slope of his abdomen. His eyes gradually brought into focus an unusual angle of white baseboards and the sturdy wooden legs of a chair. _Had he really just wanked off on the grimy floor…?_

It was this case, Sherlock thought, swimming back from his daze. It was his constant mulling about love and attraction and the weaknesses and lapses in judgment that came with relationships. Getting involved made people vulnerable.

He sat up, stripped off his shirt, and harshly wiped at his stomach. Love. Lust. They made people do stupid things.

He stood up and stumbled to the bathroom, the mirror catching his reflection: pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, hair mussed. He turned away, agitatedly threw the stained shirt into a corner. He was simply projecting too much onto the situation. He needed to step back and stop thinking about the clients. He needed to focus on the perpetrator and start thinking like a thieving liar. That would be much safer, remaining in the territory of heartless tossers.


	5. Chapter 5

“The sex was amazing, I will say that,” the client John had spoken to yesterday smiled to herself, apparently recalling a few choice moments.

Sherlock and John sat on an overstuffed settee across from the well-dressed woman. They were conducting a second interview at her home, John’s pen stilling over the notepad onto which he was taking notes. Sherlock glanced at him, noting John's enraptured expression and how his eyes moved over the client's legs clad in sheer black silk stockings.

“He had the hands of a musician,” she sighed. “So gifted.”

John's eyes shifted subtly to Sherlock's hands.

“He also left no fingerprints,” Sherlock pointed out, not noticing the change in direction of John’s gaze. “I assume he must file them off regularly.”

“They were very soft hands,” she concurred.

“No pictures of him?”

“No, it all happened so quickly. It was a whirlwind.”

“How did you meet?” Sherlock asked, standing up to move around the room.

“At a gallery opening,” she replied. “I do love the arts. And that’s why I prefer to keep this out of the papers. I really don’t relish the thought of gossip. It detracts from my work.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said noncommittally, picking up a silver paper weight. “And how long were you together?”

"As I told Dr. Watson yesterday, our affair lasted a little more than a week. When I discovered my jewelry was missing, he’d already disappeared.”

“It fits the pattern,” John said, looking up at Sherlock.

“Except this time he took jewels. Up to now he’s been siphoning cash from his marks’ bank accounts. You must have very tight online security.”

“Oh, darling, I do,” she smiled up at him flirtatiously.

“Big mistake, taking something that unique,” Sherlock went on, ignoring her. “Won’t be easy to pawn or sell without raising some questions.”

“I can send you photos of the missing pieces,” the client said. “They’re insured. In all honesty, I can get over a little heartbreak, and jewelry can be replaced. But I don’t like being played for a fool. Find him. No matter what it takes.”

This time Sherlock smiled back.

*******

They exited the client’s home, stepping out into bright sunlight and brisk autumnal air. Sherlock was still smirking, apparently pleased with some detail or other. John tucked the notepad into his back pocket, resigned to walking along silently until Sherlock decided to share his thoughts.

“Beer,” Sherlock said, coming to a sudden halt.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“Fancy a beer while I make a few phone calls?” Sherlock asked, nodding toward a small corner cafe.

“Sure,” John answered. He could do with a drink. He took a seat at a table outside and ordered two beers while Sherlock crossed the street and pulled his phone from his breast pocket, followed by a pair of sunglasses. He slipped the metal frames on before scrolling through his phone and lifting it to his ear, his gaze trained on some far point as he waited for the call to go through.

God, he was beautiful, John thought. Not merely handsome, but truly beautiful. He sipped absently from his glass, appreciating the cut of Sherlock’s white shirt and deep blue, almost black suit. The breeze ruffled Sherlock’s hair and he swept a hand through it, pushing it away from his eyes while he talked, pacing a few steps.

Those long legs and impossibly large hands, the sinewy lines of his torso… John took a deep drink, needing to quench a rising thirst. Sherlock suddenly turned, was looking right at him. John automatically straightened up, lifted an eyebrow expectantly. Sherlock didn’t respond. John glanced back at the pale liquid in his glass. Maybe Sherlock was just looking through him. Maybe he always would.

John caught sight of his own reflection in the window of the cafe. He studied his face impassively -- the etched lines, stubble on his square jaw, thin lips, eyes that had already seen too much but wanted more, hair a mix of blond and brown and emerging gray -- unremarkable, John decided.

John lifted his glass again. _Dumb ass,_ he chided himself, using the phrase one of his American counterparts in Afghanistan had favored. Just get over it. He drained his glass and reached across to pick up the beer he had ordered for Sherlock. He couldn't wait for him forever.

*******

Sherlock thumbed his phone off but held it in his hand a little longer. To a passerby, he looked like he was reading the screen. In reality, his eyes, still hidden behind the sunglasses, were focused on John across the street.

John was hunched over a beer -- his second one, apparently -- his gaze fixed straight ahead, his face serious. Sherlock liked that expression, the calm but wary look that could swing into a crooked smile or a tight-lipped glare. He was frequently the recipient of both.

Sherlock crossed back to the table, slid into the seat across from John. He signaled the waitress to bring him a glass of the same beer, then sat back. John said nothing, shifting his gaze to watch people walking by.

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, noting how the sun pooled on the shoulders of his leather jacket and glinted in his hair. The rich smell of leather unfolded around him. That scent -- warm, deep, earthy -- was one he always associated with John. He imagined the hollow of John's collarbone would retain that scent long after he removed his jacket. Skin marked on skin...

His hand reached out suddenly, fingers brushing just above John's coat collar, touching his neck for the briefest moment, then pulling back as John's head swiveled sharply in surprise.

“There was something--” Sherlock explained. “A loose thread.”

John looked at him closely, but Sherlock's expression remained carefully neutral. The waitress returned, placed Sherlock's drink on the table and removed the empty glass.

John eyed him a few seconds more, unable to see past the dark lenses of the sunglasses.

"Drink your beer," John finally said gruffly, flexing his shoulders to shake off the burn of Sherlock's unexpected touch.


	6. Chapter 6

The client sent the photos of the jewelry as promised, and Sherlock forwarded them on to a number of contacts with instructions to notify him if and when the jewels surfaced. He sent the original client a quick update on their progress, then settled back against the sofa in his hotel room.

He and John had managed to skim over the awkward moment at the cafe. He didn't want to think about the strange impulse that had caused his hand to move -- there really _had_ been a stray thread, hadn't there? In truth, he was no longer sure. He punched a pillow viciously, trying to adjust it behind his back. He would just delete the entire incident.

He looked over at John seated at the desk working on his laptop, typing in his painfully slow manner. Sherlock couldn't decide if it was amusing or maddening. Both, really. He watched as John’s fingers slowed even further, then stopped altogether.

“Seven women…” John wondered out loud. “How on earth did this bloke seduce seven women in a matter of weeks _and_ manage to steal from right under their noses?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Grifters grift, they manipulate their marks, play off the cues they’re given.”

“You’ve got to admit it’s pretty impressive,” John went on. “I mean, he had to hack into their bank accounts in between… well… entertaining them rather extensively.”

”Con artists are called _artists_ for a reason,” Sherlock answered, sounding a bit bored.

John turned around in his chair to face Sherlock. “ _Seven,_ ” he emphasized.

“John,” Sherlock said calmly. “May I remind you of your own record? There was -- what’s her name -- the doctor. Then the one with the spots, the one with the nose, and the boring teacher. That’s four in a row by my count.”

John turned back to his laptop. “I wasn’t committing larceny on the side,” he muttered.

Sherlock decided to test his theory out loud. “What if it were two men working as a team? One to do the thieving while the other, as you so delicately put it, entertained?”

John’s fingers stopped typing again as he thought through this scenario. “That’d explain the inconsistencies in the descriptions, if they switched the roles they played.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

John pondered it some more, trying to imagine a life of white-collar crime fueled by sex and risk and money and posh houses.

Sherlock smiled slightly at him while lighting a cigarette. “Rethinking your life choices?”

“A bit, yeah,” John had to admit. He forced himself to focus back on the case. “So we’re looking for two men, what, in their late 20s? Early 30s? One dark haired, one blond? Maybe several past arrests?”

“I’ve already contacted a source to do a record search.”

John nodded contemplatively, then closed his laptop. He picked up the Sudoku cube and toyed with it while Sherlock put his feet up on the low table in front of him and smoked. John thought about the string of women he had dated, none of whom had lasted very long. Sherlock, it seemed, had always presented an obstacle in one way or another, usually by being a rude prick. Eventually, he’d stopped dating, his time and attention drawn more and more to Sherlock and the casework.

And yet he knew very little about Sherlock’s private life. John had to admit he was extremely curious about his past, particularly wanting to know if he’d ever been in a relationship. Just yesterday, Sherlock had said he’d never been in love, but love and sex were two very different matters...

John twisted a row of numbers on the cube again, a 6 curving suggestively next to a 9. God, this case had him thinking constantly about sex. Under most circumstances, he wouldn't care who his flatmate did or didn’t sleep with; that was their business. He only wanted to know because he wondered if there was any chance, any chance at all...

“So you know about my exes,” John began casually, keeping his eyes on the puzzle in his hands, “Turnabout is fair play. What about you?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t we go over this yesterday?”

“Well, I just wondered if you’ve ever had a… you know...” John faltered as he found himself the target of Sherlock’s withering gaze. “Never mind.”

Sherlock exhaled a stream of smoke, his chin jutted up as he assessed John. He let a few seconds pass before speaking. “Yes, I’ve had sex, to get to the real point of your question,” he said flatly. “Does it matter when and with whom?”

John held up his hands, regretting that he’d started down this path. “No -- sorry -- you don’t have to --” he stopped, let out a breath. “Sorry,” he said again.

Sherlock turned his head to look out the window, his expression inscrutable. “I’ve told you work is all that matters to me. The rest is nothing but a distraction.”

John stared at the 69 on the cube. He shouldn’t press the subject, and yet he couldn’t stop himself. “But don’t you ever crave... distraction?”

Sherlock remained silent and John stole a glance at his profile. A muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitched before he answered, his voice low and barely audible. “Sometimes.”

Hope shot through John’s veins. That one word was more than he'd expected to hear. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. Sherlock slid his gaze over to him and their eyes caught, tangled, unable to break away. John felt a quiver low in his belly, a shimmer of familiar heat coil up his spine.

He grasped for words, but nothing came to him. He was utterly lost in the pale blue eyes across the room. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again, looking down at his hands.

John tried to stitch a sentence together, but nothing seemed quite right. He finally stood up, the back of his legs awkwardly bumping into his chair. “I’ll just… I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” He scooped up his laptop and made his way to the door.

“John--”

John turned at the sound of his name. Sherlock was perched forward on the sofa as if ready to stand, his expression earnest. And then it changed again, as did the words on the tip of his tongue. “Just… solve that bloody puzzle.”

John didn’t look at the cube in his hand, his eyes remaining fixed on Sherlock. “I’m working on it.”

******

Once the door closed, Sherlock ruffled his hands through his hair in frustration.

_Sometimes._

The word gnawed at him. He shouldn’t have said anything. Or he should have stood up and gone to John, boxed him against the door, kissed him hard, and let things burn on or fall apart or end in silence or with a shove. Almost anything would be better than this turmoil of prolonged gazes and fractional starts and stops.

He held his head in his hands. He wanted John, and he didn’t, the litany of potential complications overwhelming. He couldn't have both scenarios; he would eventually have to choose a course, the thought of which scared the shit out of him.


	7. Chapter 7

Hot tea. Pastry. The world looked much better to John the next morning over breakfast. He was up early, the dining room filled with only a handful of others reading the paper or scrolling through their phones in pleasant solitude.

He finished up, returned to his room, and showered. He was standing at the mirror shaving when an insistent knock at the door startled him. He finished one last swipe with his razor before grabbing a towel and going to the door. Peering through the peephole, he saw a mess of mahogany curls. 

He pulled open the door. “Bit early for you, isn’t it?” he asked.

Sherlock stepped briskly inside, a sheaf of papers in his hand. “The case,” he said rapidly, “a new lead.” He looked up, then was struck silent, taking in the sight before him -- John, shirtless, in jeans, barefoot, hair damp, skin smelling richly of lather. Distracting. Very, very distracting. Sherlock nearly forgot what he was going to say. He shook his head to refocus. “Your agonizing typing skills made me think of it.”

“How’s that?” John asked, wiping his jaw once more with the towel.

“Computers. Hacking. Where would two people with those skills potentially meet? Online. I obtained a set of watchlists of individuals who've been monitored for non-authorized use of said skills in the past two years. Narrowed that down to a smaller list by gender, age, and location. Cross-referenced those with records for theft and scams and several other criteria. Upshot is that twenty-seven suspects remain.”

“You did all that this morning?”

“Hmm? Oh, no. Never went to sleep, actually. Had some help from Mycroft’s office.”

“Does Mycroft know that?”

“Not yet.” Sherlock handed John the papers, each with a grainy photo and details about the suspects.

“I’ve never seen so many aliases,” John said, leafing through the pages. 

Sherlock watched John scan the profiles, the towel now slung around his neck, the scar on his left shoulder visible. The lack of sleep and the rush of a breakthrough were making Sherlock lightheaded. That would explain why he had a strange urge to run his fingers over the raised skin of the bullet wound on John’s shoulder. His eyes went lower, catching a glimpse of a faded tattoo that peeked over the top of John’s waistband, just above his right hipbone. He’d like to trace his finger across the tempting ink, push down the waistband to reveal the rest of the design. He resisted, touching his own neck instead, stroking his skin with the pads of his fingers. 

“So now what?” John asked, sorting through the last of the papers. 

“I’ve sent the photos to the clients. If they can confirm identities, additional resources can be engaged to track the suspects down.”

“Interpol?”

“Not exactly. Much lower on the food chain.”

“Ah.” John wasn’t sure what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. “What will happen to them?”

“I’m sure they won’t be typing on a keyboard for quite a while… after that, it depends on how many of the clients want to pursue legal action.”

“I see,” John handed the papers back. “So for now, we just wait?”

“We wait.” 

John looked at Sherlock, tilted his head, taking in the dark circles under his eyes. He seemed almost feverish, a flush marked across his cheekbones. “You should get some sleep. You look a bit… rough.”

Sherlock passed his hand over the stubble on his neck and jaw. “I suppose you're right.” His eyes, heavy-lidded, moved down John's torso one more time, causing John to become highly aware of his half-dressed state. His skin prickled with electricity but he refused to move, standing his ground against that gaze that could mean absolutely nothing or something extremely suggestive. 

Sherlock snapped back to attention. “Right.” He headed to the door, then turned at the last moment. “Go out and get me some nicotine patches. My lungs hurt.”

John folded his arms across his chest, half annoyed and half aroused by the commanding tone in Sherlock’s voice. “Fine.”

******

John went for a walk, stopping by a pharmacy to pick up the demanded nicotine patches. He slipped the bag over the handle of Sherlock’s door, then returned to his own room. He watched a bit of television, catching up on the news, then was drawn into a moody film noir full of mysterious women, a hard-boiled detective, smoky bars, and murder. 

John reclined in bed, absently working on the Sudoku cube while watching. Real detective work was not quite as glamorous as the movie made it seem, but he couldn’t complain at the moment in his all-expenses-paid suite.

He glanced down at the cube, was surprised to see that he only had a few more numbers to fit into place. He was nearly there.


	8. Chapter 8

Several hours later, John gazed at the puzzle in his hand, thinking of Sherlock. As if his thoughts had summoned the detective, John's phone chimed three times in succession. He picked it up to read the string of texts, smiled at Sherlock’s rambling missives.

      _Two suspects confirmed. The hunt is underway._

_Mycroft not pleased with me, as expected._

_God, I want to smoke. Dinner?_

John decided to answer just the last message, quickly typing.

_Saw a place on my walk that looked good. Meet you downstairs at 7._

John was the first to arrive in the lobby and passed the time by trying to deduce things about random people walking by. Sherlock would have noticed things about collars and scuff marks and luggage tags and calloused hands and rattled off details about the strangers’ lives in uncanny detail. John could see only the broadest brush strokes: An elderly woman cradling a small dog in her arms, a young couple gazing at each other, a group of business people chatting after a meeting, a stunning dark-haired man in a black tailored suit…

John blinked, struck by the utter beauty of the slow smile that spread across Sherlock’s face as he walked toward him. _Oh God,_ John realized, his heart skipping a beat, _I’m in love with the bastard._

Blood rushed to John’s cheeks, his ears ringing, barely able to hear Sherlock say something about the suspects and tracking IP addresses. He simply nodded, his feet moving automatically toward the exit, retracing his steps from earlier in the day, leading them to the small restaurant that had caught his eye.

Sherlock was still talking, asking and answering his own questions as he thought through several possibilities, and John apparently responded adequately. They were seated at a table near the back, the room dark and cozy and candlelit. Sherlock finally stopped talking long enough to study the wine list and order a bottle of local red.

John stared at the menu, the words swimming in front of him, reeling from the revelation that had hit him hard in the chest just minutes ago. He looked up when he finally sensed that Sherlock and the waiter were staring at him expectantly.

“Sorry.” John cleared his throat, hurriedly ordered something.

“Everything all right?” Sherlock asked once the waiter had left.

“Just… off kilter a bit.” John couldn’t even come up with a good excuse.

Sherlock knitted his brows at him, then dismissed it. “If all goes well, we should be hearing something about their location soon enough. I wonder, though--”

“Could we--” John interrupted, holding up a hand. “Could we not talk about the case?”

Sherlock gave him long look. “Why?”

“I just want to sit and drink this wine and eat a meal without talking about work.”

This caused Sherlock to sigh. “What else is there?”

“A lot of things. I don’t know… You pick something.”

Sherlock folded his hands, leaned forward. “Tattoos.”

John’s face went hot again, completely caught off guard. “Pardon?”

“I noticed you’ve a tattoo on your right hip. Couldn’t quite make out what it was.”

John let out an uneasy laugh. “It’s not a very good one. Got it years ago not long after I enlisted. Bit of a drunken lark…”

“What is it?”

“The Medical Corps insignia. Snake, staff, laurel, crown, all that.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, toyed with a spoon again. “Why your hip?”

“I’ve no fucking idea. I was drunk and nearly passed out on the table. It made sense at the time.”

“Or,” Sherlock countered, “one might say it’s a strong symbol of your identity, yet it remains largely hidden. Interesting psychology, that.”

John looked at him sharply, his comment unexpectedly striking a nerve. “You don’t exactly wear your heart on your sleeve, either, do you?”

Sherlock looked away, smiled wryly. “Who says I have a heart?”

John took a swallow of wine, agitated. Conversations with Sherlock were endless mazes that looped back on themselves, leading into dead ends. He was sick of puzzles. He realized that Sherlock would forever set up the pieces, make several moves, then walk away when the game got too close for comfort.

Enough. Time to tip the board over, change the rules. John took another drink, carefully weighing his next words, then forged ahead. “ _I_ know you have a heart.”

Sherlock looked up, surprised at the change in John’s tone. John held his gaze, not letting him slide out of the situation this time. If Sherlock wanted to play games, then he had a trump card.

“I want to show you something.” John’s hand went to his coat pocket, and he placed the Sudoku cube firmly in the center of the table. “I solved it. This evening, before we left the hotel, I finally figured it out."

Sherlock stared at the cube for several moments, then picked it up, carefully checking every side. “So I see…”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘If you solve it before we leave Belgrade, you can name your reward,’” John continued in a low voice, leaning in close, his eyes boring into Sherlock’s. “And I know what I want.”

The room seemed to narrow to just the two of them locked in an intense gaze. John moved away slightly as the waiter approached to fill their water glasses. Unable to speak freely, he let his knee brush against Sherlock’s, then pressed his leg against his shin. John watched Sherlock’s face as he realized the contact was deliberate. He didn’t pull away, but he dropped his gaze to the table.

“If you want to leave, get up and go now,” John rasped once the waiter had gone, his hand gripping Sherlock's thigh, “or stay and finish what's been started.”

Sherlock remained frozen as he absorbed the directive, felt the burn of John's fingers digging into his leg. This was it -- the ultimatum he'd both been pushing for and dreading, knowing he'd never be the one to say it out loud. He stared at the cube in his hand, the puzzle pleasingly arranged, completed, the challenge fulfilled. He finally lifted his eyes to John’s, his decision made. He would take the risk, let his guard down, disregard his own cautions. “I'll stay.”

John's hand on his leg squeezed tighter, then relaxed slowly. They were spared from having to speak further thanks to the arrival of their food. They ate largely in silence, their appetites suddenly stunted by the private world of legs and feet and occasional touches of hands on thighs taking place beneath the tablecloth.

They declined espresso and dessert, paid quickly, walked back to the hotel, not speaking, the space between their bodies thick with anticipation.

At the hotel the lobby was unexpectedly full, bustling with a boisterous group of travelers who had just arrived, creating a long and shuffling wait for the slow-moving lifts. John felt restless with irritation, his eyes casting about for an escape from the crowded lobby. To his left, the door to the stairwell was blocked by a group of large, red-faced men. He looked to his right, saw the double doors to the ballroom. Maybe there was a set of service stairs through there.

He touched Sherlock's elbow, nodded his head toward the doors. John rather rudely brushed past another noisy group, then pushed open the heavy wooden doors, emerging into a grand room that was empty except for tables and chairs arranged in clusters as if for a wedding dinner. It was dark, the only light shining through the tall windows cast by streetlights, all sound muffled by deep-piled rugs and heavy drapes.

Forget looking for the stairs. Unable to bear waiting another second, John reached for Sherlock's hand, pulling him across the room toward a dim alcove arranged with several plush chairs and a sofa. They stopped near a window, finally alone in a quiet corner of a vast silent space.

John looked up at Sherlock and into his eyes, shadows playing across his face. He drew in a breath, then curved his hands under Sherlock’s suit jacket, his fingers closing on soft fabric and trim muscle, just holding him by the waist for a long moment, savoring this first touch before drawing closer.

This time he would not stop. John bent upwards, his mouth seeking Sherlock’s, their lips meeting in a soft, cautious kiss. John drew back slightly, his eyes closed, wanting more but waiting to gauge Sherlock's reaction.

He felt a hand at the small of his back, another at his shoulder pulling him near again, felt lips tentatively touch his mouth, and they melted slowly together, exchanging a series of exploratory kisses that soon grew more ardent.

John inhaled deeply, trying to remember each moment and failing, overrun with too many disorganized impressions that were further scattered by spikes of surprise and pleasure. His fingers slid up Sherlock’s back, his grip tightening when he heard Sherlock’s involuntary catch of breath as he tugged on his bottom lip with a gentle bite.

That small sound, that vulnerable hitch of breath, made John want him even more than he thought possible. He kissed Sherlock harder, pressing him into the soft folds of the heavy red drapes until they found the support of the wall.

Suddenly John could remember everything: the sound of their breath mixing, the scents of smoke and perfume and wood polish rising from the velvety curtains, the silky feel of Sherlock’s hair coiled in his fingers, the wine-stained taste of his lips.

“Tell me what you want,” John finally breathed against Sherlock’s mouth, his hand roaming down and sliding between his legs.

Sherlock swallowed, trying to regain speech. The dam had broken. It was too late to stop the flood of desire coursing through his veins. “I want,” he managed to say before capturing John’s mouth again, “to see every inch of you…” he slipped his tongue along John’s lips, pressed the growing hardness of his cock into John’s cupped palm, “laid out bare on your bed...”


	9. Chapter 9

The door to John's room closed behind them with a soft click. There were several seconds of intense silence, then a low growl, a flurry of hands and grunts and the rustle of clothes hastily dropping to the floor, the squeak of mattress springs as they fell to the bed atop the white duvet.

Sherlock had given himself over to this, shut off his overly analytical mind, allowing pleasure to overrun his system. It had been a very long time since he’d indulged in intimacy, and now John Watson was all he could think about.

John, whom he was now staring down at while straddling his hips. They were both breathing heavily after a heated tangle of insatiable mouths, hands running down backs, fingers grasping arses, palms sliding up thighs.

Sherlock had rolled John onto his back and pinned his hands above his head until he stilled, his only movements the rapid rise and fall of his chest, slight smile, and eyes tracking Sherlock’s motions.

Sherlock would now have that unrestricted, leisurely examination of John's naked form. He slowly released John’s wrists, then trailed his fingers down the inside of John's forearms, over the curve of triceps, lingering on the scar marking his shoulder, at last free to touch it. The scar tissue was taut, shiny silver at the center, raised uneven ridges of reddish skin jagging outwards. Sherlock gently pressed his index finger against the wound, imagining the trajectory of the bullet, then fanned open his hand across John's collarbone. John’s eyes closed briefly at the touch, his lips parting, his breath shallow.

Sherlock’s fingers continued diagonally down John’s chest and across the plane of his stomach, his hand skimming to the right to trace over the tattoo inked across his hipbone. The motto beneath the insignia was just legible in the dim light: In Arduis Fidelis. ‘Faithful in adversity.’ How fitting. Sherlock twisted around, one hand sweeping down John's legs, feeling the coarse hair and firm muscle, noting an old scar on his shin several stitches long.

Sherlock smiled to himself and turned back. It was wonderful, John’s body. Here was a map of history and secrets that he planned to explore and catalog, bit by fascinating bit.

His eyes then fell to John’s cock. It was, in a word, magnificent. Larger than average, it stood engorged, currently pressing against his own erection. All in due time.

Sherlock bent low, dropping a hard kiss against John’s mouth, his hands lightly circling John’s neck, his thumbs splayed against the shorter man’s jaw. Tilting John’s head back, Sherlock breathed in the faint scent of leather left from his jacket, pressed his mouth against his throat, causing John to let out a ragged sigh.

Shifting his weight, he knelt between John's knees, the mattress dipping with the pressure. He worked his way down John’s chest again with fingers and lips, licking over nipples, stroking down his ribs and belly, pausing when he came to the hip with the tattoo. Sherlock slid the tip of his tongue up the image of the snake and staff, nipped the blue-inked crown with his teeth. John arched up, his fingers gripping Sherlock’s shoulders.

Circling the base of John's cock in one hand, Sherlock lowered his mouth once more, running his tongue around the tip, sliding his lips over the glistening top. John let out a hiss of breath, his spine rounding at the sensation.

“That feels so good,” John encouraged huskily, his fingers twining into the errant curls behind Sherlock’s ear.

Sherlock played his mouth up and down John's shaft, dipping a bit deeper each time, then pulled up with deliberate languidness, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on the head, letting it pop wetly from his lips.

“Jesus,” John exhaled, his eyes darkening.

Sherlock ran his tongue down the length of John's cock, then striped back up the underside, licking, sucking, teasing. John panted out a guttural sound, his legs opening wider to accommodate the breadth of Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock’s hand smoothed down the outside of John’s left thigh, curved under his buttock, then trailed upwards to cup his balls in his palm. John breathed in sharply, watched Sherlock's full lips parting to draw in his cock again, his fingers stroking the base of John’s shaft in sync with his motions. John writhed under him, digging his heels into the bed to lift his hips to that glorious mouth.

“Sher --” John faltered, a grimace of pained pleasure crossing his face, his voice a harsh whisper. He lost himself in the friction of Sherlock’s hand, the fringe of curls hanging over his eyes, those lips wrapped around his cock, the soft well of mouth and tongue….

"Fuck -- I'm almost there -- " John rasped.

Sherlock ran a hand up John’s belly, strummed a fingertip across the tight peak of his left nipple.

John convulsed with an unintelligible groan, his fingers scrabbling helplessly into the bedclothes as he stretched in raw pleasure, his cum rushing into the closed heat of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock splayed one hand over John’s hip, guiding him through his tremors, the other milking his cock so he could swallow the final drops.

Sherlock drew a hand across his mouth, then prowled over John’s body, letting his weight press down on his chest. He could feel John’s heart pounding.

John grasped the small of Sherlock’s back, holding him tightly, gradually resurfacing from his blindingly satisfying release. He half-opened his eyes, and they sought each other’s mouths in a tumult of hunger and satisfaction. He could taste himself on Sherlock’s lips, a realization shocking and exhilarating in its newness.

Sherlock grazed his mouth along John’s neck before rolling back onto the bed to lie on his side. John turned to face him, the bed covers tangled around their feet.

John gazed at him, ran his palm over the roundness of Sherlock's shoulder then down his arm, letting it rest on his thigh. Sherlock watched him carefully, his eyes filling with a growing need.

John gathered the warm weight of Sherlock’s cock into his hand, felt it stiffen further as he fondled him leisurely, his thumb playing over the glans until precum gleamed along the slit. John was tempted to bring him off quickly, eager to see him come undone the way he'd been reduced to a moaning wreck. But wait; he'd rather draw this out, enjoy the moment a bit longer.

John shifted his hands higher, smoothed his palms up and down Sherlock's back and across the peaks and valleys of his shoulder blades, kissing him languorously, keeping the pace slow.

John was relaxed, flooded with endorphins; Sherlock was rock hard, his breath shallow, his hips seeking John's, hungry for contact. John found it rather enjoyable, making Sherlock wait, hearing those urgent little noises emanating from the back of his throat slip out between kisses.

John still held back, cradling Sherlock's head with his hands, nuzzling the length of his throat, sucking gently at the warm and fragrant skin beneath his ear. He felt a shiver run through Sherlock's frame in response, a slick line forming across his upper thigh where Sherlock rutted impatiently against him.

John trailed his mouth back to Sherlock's, barely hovering against his lips, a butterfly kiss as one palm curved around Sherlock's hip, fingertips pressing into the hard muscle of his arse. John let his thumb trail down the vee where hip and leg joined, teasing the tender skin. Sherlock moaned a little, his cock jutting brazenly between them, a translucent droplet quivering at the tip.

“John--” Sherlock managed, sounding almost desperate.

John capitulated, his fingers delving lower, lightly surrounding Sherlock's cock that pulsed at his touch. There was a drawn-in breath, an upward-meeting thrust as John tightened his grip, his hand moving down in a fluid motion, then sliding up from the base, ending with a circling of fingers just beneath the head. Sherlock groaned, causing John to seek out his lips again, his tongue slipping into his mouth as he stroked his cock, his knuckles grazing against Sherlock's taut stomach.

Sherlock anchored his fingertips into the flesh above John's arse, rocking into John’s fist. “Tighter… like that,” Sherlock growled against the corner of John’s mouth.

John complied, pulling away just enough to watch the deliciousness of Sherlock unraveling before him. Such deep sounds from his chest, glimpses of blue unfocused eyes, straining tendons in his neck, his voice a broken gasp: “Oh, God --”

Sherlock’s hips jerked, warm semen spilling over hands and bellies. John pressed into him, kissing him ravenously, smearing their thighs together, absorbing the small, shuddering aftershocks of Sherlock’s orgasm with his own body.

They stayed clasped together, breathing hard, until Sherlock detached himself to collapse on his back next to John. He crooked an arm over his head, his eyes closed above flushed cheeks, lips slightly parted as his breathing slowed. John wiped his hand against the sheet, then settled his palm over Sherlock's chest, covering his solar plexus. He dipped down to deliver another deep kiss on that lush mouth now slightly rough and reddened.

"Finally,” Sherlock mumbled against John's lips, his palm curving lazily around the nape of John’s neck.

John grinned into a second, softer kiss. “Finally."

They fell into a long, sated silence lying close together, John's leg partially thrown over Sherlock's, his hand still on his chest. They were content -- messy, mussed, thoroughly marked by each other.

John lay on his side gazing at Sherlock's profile, thinking that he could now die happy knowing precisely what Sherlock sounded like during an orgasm (gloriously throaty exhalations) and what his face looked like when he came (gorgeous -- sweat-sheened, quaking-hipped, full-lipped, goddamned gorgeous).

John let his gaze drift down Sherlock's body, noticed the nicotine patch on his left arm had survived the evening intact, returned to his torso, and followed the lines of his waist, down a narrow trail of dark hair leading to his --

_Ding_

They both jumped at the sound of Sherlock's phone pinging out an invasive text alert.

“Ignore it,” John murmured.

Sherlock pushed himself up onto one elbow, scanning the floor for the source of the sound somewhere among the heaps of clothing.

“Sherlock, it can wait,” John protested. “Just -- oh, hell,” John sighed as Sherlock unceremoniously climbed over him to dig his phone out of his suit jacket. John resigned himself to admiring Sherlock’s backside as he read the text.

“Perfect. They’ve been located in Barcelona.” Sherlock clambered back over John, phone in hand, already texting back.

John pulled the sheet up to their waists, starting to feel chilly now that they had moved apart. He waited patiently until Sherlock finished.

“Tell me you're not going to Barcelona,” John said.

“It would be advisable if I --”

“Don’t go.”

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. “Why not?”

“Because I'm asking you to stay,” John answered calmly.

Sherlock held the phone between his palms, not replying.

“Two days,” John finally offered. “Two more days alone together in this hotel, in this bed -- or your bed -- I don't give a toss which. I just want to be with you, like this, after all the time it took us to get here.”

Sherlock listened quietly, then placed his phone on the bedside table. “No.”

John looked shocked, then stricken.

“Two days would be impossible,” Sherlock continued imperiously. “Completely amateurish assumption. This clearly requires _four_ days. Charged to the client as extra research.”

It took a moment for his words to register. When they finally did, John turned to him, gave him a shove. “You dick.”

Sherlock caught his hands, but John wrestled him back down to the mattress. “God, I hate you,” John teased with a wicked grin.

Sherlock relaxed under his grip, his own grin changing to something softer as he looked into John's eyes. “I hate you, too.”

John smiled, his heart beating a little faster, understanding the true meaning beneath their harsh word play, another game to subvert a much more powerful truth.

“Liar,” John whispered, sinking down to cover Sherlock's body completely with his own, their lips relaying what they really wanted to say. It was just a matter of time before all the pieces fell into place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far, and comments and feedback are always appreciated (they really, really are)! I figured this chapter ending was a bit unconventional, but it's all about that cryptic communication thing John and Sherlock have. In this particular story, I don't see them whispering sweet nothings to each other at this point -- instead, they're still guarded when it comes to expressing emotions. Curious what ya'll think about that. 
> 
> I was originally going to leave this at 9 chapters since Soduko has 9 numbers to solve (OK, I like to play with structure). But since I felt like the boys needed more of each other (and I wanted to write some more smut), please proceed to the next chapters detailing what happens over those extra days in Belgrade. (Hint: lots of sex.)
> 
> On to Part 2 >>>>>


	10. Chapter 10

 

**PART 2: 96 Extra Hours in Belgrade**

* * *

 

**Fortress**

John is vaguely aware of the rough stone wall digging into his back. He can hear little pieces of grit showering down onto the ground as his shoulders flex and grind against the ancient blocks that were stacked by Romans centuries ago. His mouth is melding with Sherlock's, his hands are running up Sherlock’s back, under his coat, under his suit jacket, the thin white cotton shirt impeding access to skin.

So John pulls him closer, a little more roughly than he intended, their hips knocking together, feet staggering. The back of John’s head meets the protruding edge of a stone and he winces.

“Shit. Ow,” John slurs against Sherlock’s mouth. His hand reflexively goes to his scalp. “Fucking bricks.”

Sherlock pulls back a bit, his hands still half-buried down John’s jeans. “All right?”

John snakes a hand back around Sherlock’s waist, tugging up a shirt tail. “Fine. But I can think of softer places to be doing this.” He smiles, recalling in a flash all that had happened since he placed the Sudoku cube on the table last night, setting off the spark that led to their falling heatedly into bed together.

“Was your idea to come here,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s ear.

John sighs. It _had_ been his idea to leave the hotel room and visit the fortress set high above the Danube and Sava rivers. They'd spent all night and most of the day hiding away in bed, caressing and dozing, snogging and lazing, touching with a gentleness that simmered into sweet mauling. He had finally stretched under the covers, declared the need to eat and stand upright, suggested they get some fresh air and see something of the city.

So they cleaned up and ate at a cafe and hiked to the historic fortress overlooking the town. They walked around like dutiful tourists, but at some point caught each other’s eye, wandered off the main path, disappeared into a dark alcove under an arched doorway, their hands instantly roaming.

“Can’t stay in bed all day,” John defends his suggestion, tugging out Sherlock's other shirt tail.

“Yes, you can,” Sherlock disagrees, his teeth pulling gently on John’s earlobe.

“I’m interested in history,” John counters, his fingers dipping into the small of Sherlock’s back and past his waistband.

“I’m interested in making you come again,” Sherlock whispers, pressing his thighs into John’s.

John can feel Sherlock’s erection against his own, and he can’t help but tip into it a bit more, hump a little, creating some scintillating friction. He can tell by the way that Sherlock sucks in his breath that he likes it, so he slides his hand down under their cocks, massaging them both through their trousers.

A low moan escapes from Sherlock’s lips that are hovering along John’s neck. John shivers, then calculates. There aren’t that many people touring the fortress at this hour, no one has passed by the little hidden alcove, and besides, they’re deep in the shadows. If they're quick...

“Turn around,” John says, his hands going to Sherlock’s hips and twisting him to face the wall. John catches the look of surprise on Sherlock’s face as he glances back at him over his shoulder. “Take off your coat and undo your trousers,” John orders, his fingers hastily working at his own fly.

Sherlock’s eyes widen, but he shrugs off his Belfast, drops it an arm's length away, his hands moving to his trousers.

John pushes his jeans and underwear off his hips, takes his cock in his left hand, stroking a few times. The fingers of his right hand snag at the top of Sherlock’s trousers and pants, impatiently yanking them down, exposing the pale slope of Sherlock’s buttocks. John cups Sherlock's arse reverently in his hands, his thumbs lingering in the two dimples set low in his back.

“Beautiful,” John breathes, moving closer, the tip of his cock grazing the line formed between the firm cheeks. He rubs his length along the cleft of Sherlock’s arse, hears Sherlock exhale shakily.

“Bend over,” John instructs softly, “feet together, hands against the wall.”

Sherlock does as he’s told, his rate of breathing audibly increasing.

John take his cock in his hand again, spits into his right palm, slicks it over his shaft. He leans in, fitting his cock into the snug space between Sherlock's upper thighs. He cants forward, then pulls back, pushes in again. He curves an arm around Sherlock, seeks the heft of his cock, wraps his fingers around it, slides down the foreskin.

They shift, adjust, find a spot that gives John the degree of friction he wants and free access to Sherlock’s prick. The risk of being discovered heightens their arousal, intensifies every sensation as John slides his cock between Sherlock’s thighs again, easier now slicked with precum, his hand grasping Sherlock working in time with his hips.

“Oh…ohh..." Sherlock gasps softly, watching John’s fist move over him, John’s cock pumping between his legs.

John begins to thrust faster and Sherlock’s fingers dig into the cool stones and mortar, his arse pushing back against John.

“Ahh, god,” John grunts, “I wish I could be in you…” His hand falls away from Sherlock's cock to better grasp his hips. Sherlock takes his own prick in hand, jerks at it urgently.

John's movements are erratic, both hands now clasping Sherlock’s waist as he stutters-stops-thrusts, shudders with a groan stifled into his upper arm. His cum spurts forth onto the stone wall, some clinging to Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock comes moments later with a hoarse cry, his cum arcing onto the blocks, criss-crossing the ribbons left by John.

John drapes over Sherlock's back as he leans into his arms against the wall, his head bowed. “Fuck,” Sherlock breathes out.

“Close, but not quite,” John manages to quip. He can feel Sherlock’s shoulders lift in a small laugh, and he winds his arms around him more tightly, his palms pressed low against his belly. “Next time,” John says, serious now, close to his ear, “I want to do it properly. Thoroughly."

Sherlock pauses, then turns to face John, gathers him close, their soft cocks pressing together. “I’d like that,” he murmurs, his mouth sweeping down.


	11. Chapter 11

**Plum Brandy**

Sherlock steps into the deep clawfoot tub, sinks down into the hot water with an extended sigh. The bathtub is enormous, brilliant white porcelain with silver feet. The fixtures are conveniently set in the center, allowing two people to recline facing each other.

John steps in next, shocked by the burning heat on his thighs as he settles into the water. Sherlock draws his legs up a bit more, making room.

“How is it,” John asks, stretching his arms along the sides, letting his neck fall against the back of the tub, “that you always get the best hotel rooms?”

“Charm,” Sherlock answers, smiling like a Cheshire cat.

They melt into the water, John’s shins sliding against the underside of Sherlock’s thighs, his toes centimeters from tucking underneath Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock reaches over the side to retrieve his glass filled with plum brandy. The bottle of liquor, along with a card, had been delivered to their room while they were out, a gift from their Serbian client. The card also included an invitation to a gallery opening the following evening.

Sherlock takes a sip of the brandy, his eyes watering as he swallows. “Good god,” he coughs.

John grins, takes a cautious drink, the liquid burning his throat. “The card said her grandfather made this. He’s ninety-two. Must be the secret to a long life.”

“Or embalming,” Sherlock adds, sniffing at the glass, taking another sip.

“So are we going?” John asks, letting his foot slide a little closer to Sherlock’s inner thigh.

“To the gallery opening?” Sherlock shrugs. “Not really my thing.”

“C’mon… wouldn’t mind seeing you in black tie,” John hints. “She sent the address for a place that can fix us up with suits.”

Sherlock considers the idea of John in formal attire, of helping to adjust his black bow tie, and then slowly removing it later. “I’ll think about it.”

A drop of water falls from the tap, creating a ring of ripples. They drink, and John sidles his foot beneath Sherlock’s balls. He flexes his toes, sees Sherlock’s eyes widen and his cock bob up in response.

Sherlock sips from his glass, the fumes from the liquor and the steam from the bath and the foot in that sensitive spot making him light-headed. He stretches out a leg, returns the complement.

John leans forward first, water sloshing as he descends on Sherlock’s mouth, crooking his arm around Sherlock's neck to pull him closer. Sherlock’s free hand clutches at John’s back, their skin slippery, knees bumping. The brandy glasses are set aside haphazardly, their breathing is heavy, their lips taste of firey plum.

They rise, dripping, step from the tub not very gracefully, stumble to the bed leaving a tango pattern of wet footprints on the carpet. John falls atop Sherlock, their torsos sleeking across each other, mouths dipping to wet necks and shoulders that gleam in the lamplight. Their hips stir in a teasing rhythm, low hums of pleasure filling the room.

Sherlock slips the words into John’s ear, his voice velvety deep. “Fuck me. Now.”

A small moan of gratitude is all that John can offer, that and the press of his hard cock against Sherlock’s belly. “Yes,” he finally breathes against Sherlock’s jaw. He tries to think, remembers that he stopped at the pharmacy, flails his hand out to the bedside table for the bottle of lube.

He finds it, flicks up the lid, drizzles some into his palm. He coats his fingers, leans down to capture Sherlock’s mouth in a slow, full kiss. Their tongues twine and John slides one finger into the tight ring of muscle, feels Sherlock’s exhalation as he consciously relaxes.

John bites gently on Sherlock’s bottom lip, releases it softly, works his finger in further. They kiss, John murmurs, patient; Sherlock sighs, pliant.

The bottle tips again, John strokes his palm over his cock until it glistens. He pushes Sherlock’s knees apart and up, lowers himself, guides the head of his cock to the cleft between Sherlock’s buttocks. He presses with a steady pressure, feels a yielding warmth as the tip of his prick slides in.

Sherlock’s eyes squeeze shut, then fall open slowly, his mouth soft. John places a kiss on his reddened lips, braces his arms on either side of Sherlock’s torso. Sherlock looks into John’s eyes as his shaft slides in deeper, hot and tight. Their gaze remains caught as John pulls back slowly, rolls his hips forward again, creating a slow ebb and flow. Sherlock smooths his palms up John’s arse, fingertips biting into the flesh as they move together. They drink each other in, their bodies forming sensual waves of motion.

This is something special, Sherlock realizes. This isn’t mere shagging or fucking, this is… he grasps for the word, his back arching… this is making love.

He’s always hated that phrase, finding it distastefully flowery. Until now -- he can’t think of any better way to describe it -- _making love…_ Their bodies are incandescent, unified, and he loses himself in the moment, gripping John by the shoulders, lifting his hips to meet his thrusts.

“You're perfect,” John whispers, then offers a confession: “I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Sherlock tightens his hold around John’s shoulders.

“John,” Sherlock says his name like a mantra, his voice low, drugged. “John... I want to feel you everywhere.”

John bites his lip, lowers his head, thrusts harder, shoulders and hips flexing as he drives into Sherlock’s body. He wants to fill him up, enter him so completely that he can’t be removed or forgotten or ever left behind.

John’s breath is ragged, the column of Sherlock’s neck is tipped back, long and white. Sherlock’s palm wraps around his own erect cock curved against his stomach, and he gives it a few quick tugs. “Come in me,” he urges John.

John ruts their damp bodies together, his voice broken. “I’m close… oh, god...”

Sherlock can feel John strain, watches John’s face contort into agonized ecstasy. Spasms of cum pulse deep inside him, the muscles in John’s buttocks and thighs shudder, and his own cock jerks, hot fluid splattering their stomachs. He bites back a shout, keening out a low groan instead.

They fall together again, chests heaving, limbs gradually unwinding, fingertips smoothing back hair, lips gently nuzzling, and Sherlock knows for certain he’s hopelessly in love with John Watson.


	12. Chapter 12

**Black Tie**

They stand in front of the large canvas, contemplating the abstract layers of red slashed over red. The clink of glasses and party chatter flow around them in the gallery.

Sherlock turns to John to say something sarcastic, but stops himself, seeing a somberness in John’s expression.

Sherlock tilts his head again, reconsidering the piece. They're still standing in front of the painting when their client, the art patron, glides by.

“What do you think it means?” she asks.

“It’s war,” John answers.

“Murder,” Sherlock offers.

“Really?” The client looks back at the canvas. “I see passion. Lust. But then, I see that everywhere.” She smiles, lightly slides her hand along each of their shoulders as she leaves to greet more guests.

Sherlock turns to grab two drinks from a tray being passed by a waiter and hands one to John.

“I didn’t know you liked art,” Sherlock says, glancing around the room, analyzing guests out of habit.

“I can appreciate beautiful things.” John lets his gaze linger on Sherlock’s face.

It’s possible that a faint blush warms Sherlock’s cheeks, but he glances away, his back ramrod straight. He does look extraordinarily attractive this evening, dressed in a single-breasted black jacket, white shirt, black waistcoat, and black trousers. His bow tie is knotted perfectly, his shoes highly polished.

John is dressed in a similar ensemble, although he chose a suit in midnight blue. Truth be told, they both look damned good, John thinks.

Sherlock finally meets John’s gaze again, falls into the dark blue of his eyes deepened by the color of his suit. He wants to touch him in a very inappropriate way. “Why are we here?” Sherlock asks softly.

John smiles. “Just passing the time. Dressing up. Being proper. Waiting. And waiting. And when we’re finally alone…”

"Smile, gentlemen!"

They turn their heads in sync and are greeted with a blinding flash and the overly eager grin of a roaming photographer. He removes an instant photo from the camera. “Just a small memento of the evening for a small donation. It all goes to charity. How about one more?” He lifts the camera again.

They stare at him. “Oh, that's fine right there. Very, very handsome.” Another flash, a flick of his wrist, and he’s holding out two black and white photographs for them to inspect.

“No, thank you.” Sherlock begins to turn away.

“Hang on,” John, curious, takes the photos by the edges. They’re surprisingly good, if a touch overexposed. The first photo is a paparazzi shot, stark light and shadow, cheekbones and chin cleft, eyes wide and mouths unguarded. The second is more posed; John looks skeptically amused and dapper, Sherlock haughty and elegant.

John pulls out a few bills that he presses into the photographer’s palm.

“Really, John,” Sherlock tsks. “What will you do with those?”

“Keep them, you git. We might want to remember this some day.”

Sherlock peers at the photos over John's shoulder, reconsidering for a second time that evening. They do, he has to admit, look quite good together. Something is just right about them. "You’re a romantic," he chides John anyway, secretly pleased as John tucks the photos into a pocket.

Hours later, when they’re finally alone, the photos lay on top of the desk and Sherlock faces John in their darkened hotel room. They drape off their jackets, kiss deeply in satin-backed waistcoats. He undoes the tie beneath John’s chin and frees it from the stiff collar in one long, silken pull.

John’s fingers work apart Sherlock's tie, strip it smoothly from around his neck. His hands drop to the buttons of his waistcoat, open the dark fabric, then move up to the white shirt, wend their way down, fingertips brushing warm skin. Sherlock reciprocates, unbuttoning until their shirts are both laid open and their palms glide over chests and ribs.

He pushes John down onto the sofa, nuzzles his mouth against the curve of John’s neck and breathes him in, imprinting his scent into his memory.

Their days in Belgrade are dwindling. Unanswered messages are filling his inbox and voicemail, but they can suspend time a little longer. He trails his lips across John’s, willingly forgetting any obligations.

John’s hands move over Sherlock, deftly unfasten his trousers, slip out his cock. “You sexy motherfucker,” John teases against Sherlock's ear, his fingers easily coaxing him to arousal. He laps his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, sucks suggestively on his bottom lip. “I’m going to make you come so hard…” John promises before lowering to his knees.

Sherlock can feel his toes curl as John takes him into his mouth, hot and wet and silky and -- _goddamn, that feels marvelous..._

Later, John thinks the same thing as he gazes up at Sherlock riding his cock, his face a study of blissful concentration. Sherlock grasps the back of the sofa, the white shirt clinging to his shoulders and billowing open at his waist as he lifts and sinks his body around John’s shaft, his chin jutted up, his mouth falling loosely open. John curves his hands around that perfect arse, his grip gradually tightening as his own hips begin to rise and strain to buck.

"Sweet fucking hell," John hears himself groan. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, panting “Fuck, yeah,” like a dog, greedy for Sherlock’s jouncing ass cock balls hips shoulders spine throat eyes, those eyes, smoldering into him now, peeling him apart, stripping him down --

John comes suddenly, jolting into Sherlock, blinded momentarily by the intensity. “Ohh…” John is gasping against the bony ridge of Sherlock’s clavicle, clasping onto him, emptying into him. He feels Sherlock stroking his hair, dropping kisses along his forehead. When he can finally breathe, they disentangle their arms and legs, burrow down into the sofa cushions.

John lifts one of Sherlock’s hands, grazes his mouth over the knuckles. He doesn’t want this to end, their retreat from the outside world. They have another day, another night, and then back to London, or Barcelona, he’s not sure which; they haven’t even discussed it.

He's on the verge of asking about what happens next -- after they leave this haven of sheets and pillows and skin -- and what there is between them, but he can't bring himself to do it. He's afraid of breaking the spell.

It can wait. It can all wait until later.

“Good?” Sherlock asks, sensing John’s pensiveness.

“Good.”


	13. Chapter 13

**the last night in Belgrade**

he wakes halfway, heavy eyes squinting at the clock  
it’s 3 a.m. and sherlock’s cock is achingly stiff

he reaches for john  
curves his chest to his back his cock rubbing his arse  
john has a lovely arse

john stirs  
senses the hardness pressing into him  
stretches purposely against it

dream woke me up  
sherlock murmurs  
kissing the base of john’s neck

was I in it?

yes, and I was in you

john smiles sleepily reaches behind him  
circles his fingers around sherlock’s cock  
satisfyingly solid

was it good?

I didn't get to finish

then you should now

john waits, drowsily stretched out on his side  
sherlock squeezes the lube with groggy uncoordinated fingers  
smears his cock slides his hand between john’s thighs

he's so warm  
sherlock nestles against john's back, eases into him  
their pelvises and legs accommodating angles and curves  
the pure geometry of sex

john juts his arse into the nook of sherlock's body  
taking the full length of his shaft with a quiet grunt

sherlock flexes his hips sinking in and out  
it feels so good just like the dream

john marvels at sherlock's giant palm covering the tattoo on his hip  
grasping him rocking his cock into him with  
long  
languid  
strokes  
his breath hot on the shell of his ear

the other large hand soon rolls john onto his stomach  
sherlock follows  
barely breaking their contact, sliding into john again  
pinning him down with his sharp hipbones and lean thighs

 _mmmm…_  
john moans  
the angle just right  
he ruts his cock into the mattress his fingers wadding the white duvet

the tempo picks up  
sherlock anchors his fingers into john’s haunches thrusting  
the soft slap of skin on skin accompanying  
the creak of bedframe and rapid huffs of breath

 _ahhh.... s'good..._  
_christ... almost there..._  
_fuck... mmmm... fuck..._  
_oh god... ohh god..._

sherlock comes inside john  
pouring himself into this man  
mouthing the knobs of his spine, savoring salty heat

john’s hand jerking, thighs shaking  
cum coming and coming  
sherlock bracing him upright

until they list forward  
tip sideways into the sheets  
breathing deep

john curves around sherlock  
a finger playing with the curl at his nape

their watches tick in counterpoint  
next to the puzzle cube  
on the bedside table

sherlock exhales  
remember when you asked me if I'd ever been in love?

john pauses  
you said 'never'

ask me again

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this last chapter unexpectedly turned into a sort of poem. I was pecking out the start of ideas on my Kindle late one night, too lazy to capitalize or punctuate, and then it struck me that is how language feels at 3 in the morning -- drowsy, disjointed, unstructured. And what better state for the boys to be in for sex and love confessions?
> 
> Thanks for coming along for the ride. I'd love to hear what you think of this or any part of the story. :)


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